Dolls

The moon in mostly full fashion drifted slowly across the southern sky. Friends kept saying, “did you see the moon tonight?” And there it was drifting away. It mocked me. It also seemed small. Maybe it’s because I prefer to watch the moon overhead or north and definitely in the eastern sky. That may change if and when I move to the west coast.
“You should get something going.”
“You think?”
“Absolutely. What are you waiting for?”
“Opportunity,” I thought. “I’m waiting for nothing. I have everything I need.”
“Well, then get moving.”
The insane always point this out. I nodded and turned to the guy wearing the loin cloth.
“You’re the only sane one here,” I told him and took a big gulp of beer. It was his beer I was drinking.
“I think so,” he responded confidently. His face was painted in some Braveheart type deal and his scrawny muscles flexed in the cold.
“What’s under the loin cloth,” my girl inquired.
“Nothing. What’s the point,” he answered. This intrigued her. I left to let her flirt.

“What do you do?” the tall dolled up chic asked me.
“I’m an artist.”
“Yea, but what do you do for a living?”
“I’m a designer.” I didn’t like her. “Do you appreciate art?”
“I don’t know much about it.” She must have been from DC with that what do you do line so I took a crack at it.
“How do you like living in DC?” I was bored.
“I love it. I work toward making labor unions stronger, teachers and nurse, that sort of thing.” It seemed like good work but I felt the system stink her up like an Asian kitchen.
“Yea? That’s good work. Keep it up.” I thought of talking not-for-profit stuff but let it go. I sat and niosely sipped on Bravehearts beer. The silence became uncomfortable.
“Well, my friends are over there so.” I pursed my lips and nodded.
“Good talking with you.” I turned to crack another beer and find my girl.

“Baby!” she was drunk. “Baby!,” she repeated. The night was a bust, I knew it. From this point out I was babysitting.
“Oh, shit.”
“Baby!” sigh.
“Oh shit. Slow it down.” It felt routine.
“Come smoke. Come outside and smoke with me.”
“Ok. Ok.”
I walked outside and smoked a 100. 100’s always remind me of my aunt and her harsh voice. She had something to teach and always asked questions. I hoped for that conversation now.
“You like her.”
“Who?”
“That girl you were talking to.”
“Oh Jesus.”
“Baby!” I sighed heavily. “Grumpy man.”
“hmmm, grumpy.” I didn’t feel grumpy. “I’m not grumpy, you’re drunk.”
“Baby!”
The repetition of it was unreal, it was like a doppelganger of the last drunk chic. I kept it to myself and smoked the 100. Last call arrived. I felt my phone vibrate in the possibilities bag (the man-purse).
Text: Shots! (No substance, again.)
Text: oh, jesus. I’d belt ya in da dam mouth and drag ya home like a cavefag.
No response.
“Let’s go baby.”
“You got it doll.”